


Shiny and New

by Makizushi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Disabled Character, Drone Season 2016, First Time, Genderfuck, Human Biology, Hybrids, Masterbation, Other, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Troll Biology, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7372891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makizushi/pseuds/Makizushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davepeta explores and learns about themself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shiny and New

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> Drone Season 2016 Prompt: I desperately want to see someone's interpretation of Davepetasprite's strange hybrid crotch. It's part female crow, part male boy, part girl troll. What is it?? What does it look like, how does it work? SHOW ME!!!

It’s been ages since you’ve had any purrivacy; the real kind of privacy where you can reasonably expect people not to walk in on you or need you to get out anytime soon. Your new room is small, and still undecorated, but _your’s_ in a way almost nothing has been since the game spat you out. Before, living all crammed together with 5 other Striders (and one bathroom) was alternately miserable and fun as fucking hell. Sharing a room with Davesprite had been an interesting experience. You are not Dave and perfectly comfortable in that, but you are less-not Davesprite and the opportunity to get to know yourself in light of him was good.

Not that rooming with him lasted long; a month or so in the tension building between Hal and ARquius stopped being expurressed in snippy little cat-fights and they exploded at each other. A metric dick ton of frustrated self-loathing, arrogance, and poor coping skills swept through the relatively tiny 3 bedroom apartment like a tsunami of distilled bullshit. Soon after ARquius moved to your room, expurressing profuse apawlogies all the while, and Davesprite was shuffled over into Hal’s room. Getting to spend some quality time with your favorite sweaty not-Bro-or-a-boyfriend was entertaining and enlightening. It had been difficult to sort out where _you_ fit in between human and troll cultures; spending time with ARquius helped ground the both of you somewhere tentatively in between and outside of both.

And that’s great! It’s important and self-affurming and - god fucking _damn_ did you need some quality alone time without a loveable but slightly spooky and incredibly awkward roommate lurking around. A deep breath fills your lungs with the scent of not quite but _almost_ home. Dirk and Dave did the vast majority of the physical labor involved in putting together your bed and the various other basic furnishings Adult Dave had delivered to the new place early that morning. You settle tiredly on the soft mattress, propping your forearm crutches against the wall.

As soon as physical therapy enabled the former sprites among you to gimp around somewhat independently on your atrophied noodle legs, plans for a separate apartment were pushed through like an elderly lady on Black Friday, which, logically, cannot exist anymore. That… simile ran away from you screaming and over the side of a cliff. You spend the next few moments staring into space; contemplating what you know of late-stage capitalism and reconciling it with the idea of a caste based military system.

These moments of cognitive dissonance, where you feel like two people smashed together instead of one completely rad person are becoming fewer and further between. There is no way of knowing what the new economic system looks like; for all you know that shit runs on special stardust and pumpkins. However, wrestling with that inconsequential difference isn’t what you’ve been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading for what feels like ages. Time to stop stalling.

Glancing over to your new door to confirm that it is securely locked, you delicately remove your shades from your face and take a look at your hands. The clusterfuck of clothes you’d worn as a sprite didn’t make it into the new world when you were incarnated as a troll-human (-bird?) hybrid, so your sweet fingerless gloves aren’t around. What you do have are silver-faun fingers with slightly thick ( ~~thin~~ ) fingernails ( ~~claws~~ ).

The problem with your body is twofold. First off, nearly everything about it causes that unsettling dissonance when you happen to pay close attention to it. That’s not right though, because you are _you_ and you unironically adore the crazy fucked up mess of a person you accidentally made of yourself. Second, ever since flopping onto the ground in front of every human and troll you’d ever even heard of, your body has almost become public property. Not in a _bad_ way, but just another thing you didn’t fully own or have much control over. With your floppy puppet legs it felt like you were endlessly picked up, moved, assisted, poked, handled, stretched, measured, exercised, and overall _helped_ until the bits of you from the neck down didn’t feel like they belonged to you anymore.

A deep seeded, residual anxiety pervaded all of this helplessness and casual touch. Your brain warred with itself over who ought to be allowed to handle you this or that way; screaming _no one_ , or hissing _especially_ not adults, or whimpering _absolutely_ not _that guy in particular_ , or conceding maybe this particular set of people _only_ , or-

It was a gross, confusing mess that you were grateful to be able to mostly ignore. Now though, staring at your fingers and touching them gently to your palms, your wrists, the backs of your hands; you want to figure out how you feel about yourself. How you feel about others in relation to you. Aaand _maybe_ a little bit about how _to_ feel yourself. The rather mysterious junk situation you have going on is also a motivating factor. Sharing a small room, and an extremely busy communal bathroom, means that you’ve gotten vague impressions and a bit of stealthy groping in, but never had the time for leisurely exploration.

After a final hard look at the definitely locked door you quickly peel your slightly damp moving day clothes off and toss them on the floor. It’ll be hilarious later when the crutches catch in them and slip out from under you but that’s future Davepeta’s problem. You scoot onto your brand new, freshly made bed and try to make yourself comfortable. It’s still strange to be able to lie down on your back without having to worry about a set of wings. Settling into that feeling takes a moment, but once the phantom sensation of crushed feathers is gone you feel grounded.

While diving right into the main event seems like both the most exciting and obvious thing to do, you find yourself strangely hesitant. Instead you bring your hand up to feel along your adorable, pounce beast ear shaped horns. They are a bit smaller than you are used to, and the light grey hair around them is much softer and impossibly fine, but they’re still there. When your fingers touch the base you feel a small shiver of what can only be described as body horror; there are _horns_ growing out of your goddamn _skull_ and that is _fucking weird as shit_. You’ve always been into the body horror thing though, so you ride it out and focus on the texture under your fingertips. Petting them results in a soft, staticy feeling suffusing your brain and the tension from the earlier part of the day drains out of you. The strangest urge to both purr and peep rises in your chest at the same time, so you giggle at yourself instead and move on.

Your face is the first thing you got used to about yourself. Your hair situation sends you back and forth and around in circles about what to do with it, but your face is unambiguously you. The shape of your lips and the length of your slightly too sharp ( ~~not sharp enough~~ ) teeth go well with your handsome Strider face, even if your eyes are mysteriously grey for now. One hand lingers to press at the cute divot in your top lip while the other trails down your soft neck to land on your even softer… chest? Breast? You’re not entirely sure. Humans are mammals and trolls are not, so waking up with these puppies was interesting to say the least. They’re certainly not troll armored fat deposits, but human males usually don’t have round little tits to go with their useless nipples.

Most of the near-dysphoria at this development disappeared after your first few baths, but damn if you don’t know what to do with them. They’re not exactly big enough to super need a bra, but they _move_ in ways that nothing about you is accustomed to. Laying flat on your back like this they almost disappear, but fondling them like an over-zealous fruit selector feels nice. Soft flesh gives under your fingertips, and your nipple perks up under your palm when you give it enough attention.

Being present with and touching your body is starting to feel a lot more comfortable now, so you smooth your hand down your wonky ( ~~grubscarless~~ ) ribs, over your ( ~~bellybuttonless~~ ) stomach, and just above the top of your thigh. Your hips are a little narrower ( ~~much wider~~ ) than you feel they should be, but the graceful curve of them is appealing. A few minutes of petting your lower stomach, hip, and occasionally breast while rubbing your thighs together has your breath coming a bit faster, a little heavier. Some kind of warm, insistent activity is happening in the danger zone and you send your best scout, Lefty, to investigate.

Lightly feeling out the soft, very warm skin between your legs makes the warm feeling pulse a time or two before settling into a dull, aching heat. It had _not_ escaped your notice in the past that you seemed to lack a dick; it was probably one of the first things you investigated when left alone for three seconds. However it looks like you have a kind of… bulge opening? But it’s all the wrong shape and too soft to be a proper sheath, and the quickly expanding flesh coming from inside the delicate slit doesn’t have the shape of a bulge exactly. Instead it looks like you have a kind of bulge-penis hybrid; lord knows if it’ll actually be useful for anything. It seems more flexible than a dong ought to be, but harder and less prehensile than a bulge. Feeling below that, you find that it wasn’t so much inside as tucked neatly in-between two folds of very sensitive skin. Not like a bone sheath at all, but also totally lacking in deez nuts you’d been so fond of. Well, that’s a lie; you’ve been without human reproductive anatomy for more than 4 years, ever since throwing yourself into Dave’s sprite in the first place.

The fingers still at your mouth, muffling even the quietest huffs of breath, dip inside for a quick second and you swallow back a little noise. Fortified with quickly drying spit, you run your fingers along your previously secret shlong, welcoming it back into existence. It seems to function quite like what part of you is used to; sensitive tip, slightly loose skin that grows tighter the more turned on you get. It’s… uh… well no one will ever hear you _say_ that it’s on the small side of what you’re used to ( ~~it’s not really~~ ) but-. It’s familiar and disturbing at once; a running theme of this little experiment.

Dipping your other hand lower, you find soft, slick skin, and more wetness than you’d anticipated. The skin here gives, and gives, and _gives_ until by increments you have a finger inside yourself. Tears prickle in your eyes, it feels _amazing_ and _awful_ at once; the strongest wave of body horror you’ve experienced yet combined with a hungry, clenching throb of need. It’s tight, though honestly you’re shocked and a little horrified by how easily the length of your whole finger slides inside. After working it for a few seconds you immediately pull out and add another, chasing a feeling of fullness some instinct drives you to crave.

Pillows only prop you up so high so you’re half curled up on yourself trying to see what’s happening down below, stomach muscles complaining slightly at the strain. The tip of your not-a-bulge is leaking fluid now as well, which is disturbing somehow. Bulges certainly don’t leak clear, silvery white fluid all over themselves. It’s slick and warm, though, and makes trying to figure out the best motion to use much easier. Pumping isn’t quite right, more like squeezing and rubbing gently, especially the flared tip.

Your breath starts coming out with soft little whines at the end; you waited too long, _far_ too long for this. Exploring what your body is capable of; it’s amazing and exhilarating. You love it and you want more. A sharp pain happens inside you and both your hands freeze. When you move again the pain is gone but it’s still sharp, too much. It seems like you caught something sensitive with a nail on accident. Using cautious movements, you resume stroking and fucking yourself on your own fingers, giving that spot the lightest and most careful of brushes. It seems like gentle back and forth movements work best inside, and you feel yourself winding up like a spring.

The head of your sweet little cock pulses and you let yourself fall back, not watching anymore, just feeling. Moving your hips into your hands makes everything twice as amazing; you’re panting openly now with little “Ah- Ah fuck. Aaah!” noises that you can’t stop or bring yourself to care about. Hot tears make their way into your completely fucked hair as you ride yourself with whatever hard won strength you can wring from your legs. Nothing about you is going to last much longer, so you throw your head to the side in an attempt to bury your face in your brand new pillow and muffle your voice.

Your hips jerk hard, driving your fingers even deeper in you to where it almost hurts ( ~~maybe not having real claws isn’t so bad~~ ) and the world goes white around you. The muscles of your - nook? ( ~~or wait what's that thing birds have?~~ ) - clench hard around your fingers and maybe your bulge-thing really is somewhat prehensile because it twitches and pulses much more ( ~~much less~~ ) than normal. Stroking it starts to be more overwhelming than pleasant toward the end, so you just hold yourself and try to breathe into the soft cotton.

Moving your hands over yourself, your skin is all very slick and feverish, but it doesn’t seem like much of anything made it onto the bed and you feel obscenely lucky to have avoided some kind of catastrophic bukakke surprise. The jizz on your abdomen is that same silvery white color, and while there seems to be quite a lot of it, it’s nowhere near enough to fill a bucket.

With some scooting and groping, and cringing at the clinging damp on your skin and the slick squish of feeling _wet stuff inside_ _you_ , you manage to snag your shirt off the floor and mop yourself up. Whatever is left you wipe up using the brand new box of tissues on your brand new nightstand and then collapse with a huge grin on your face.

You’re a weird, wonderful, fucked up mess of a thing and it’s _fucking purrfect._


End file.
